


this is how it went

by motelsamndean (whalesandfails)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalesandfails/pseuds/motelsamndean
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 11





	this is how it went

This is how it went: Sam was sprawled on the edge of the bed, long limbs splayed wide. Dean had commandeered a chair from the kitchen, knees pressed tight against mattress, body hunched over Sam’s lax form. He had a sewing needle in his hand and a pot of ink rested in the small of Sam’s back.

Although Dean had messy handwriting that Sam nagged on and on about, his hand was steady now, his chicken scratch scrawls were more from laziness than incompetence. But Sam knew Dean’s hand would be smooth for this. Like when Dean aimed at a moving target and pulled the trigger, precise movement followed with deadly precision. He could feel Dean’s breath fanning out across his back, skin raising goosebumps on every exhale. Each press of the needle into skin was soft and exact. Sam tried to picture where each needle poke was, but the tattoo was so small that it was hard to tell. 

Dean leaned back in the chair and rolled his shoulders. He tried not to look too closely at the way that the muscles across his brother’s back rippled and relaxed. His latissimus dorsi was flexing and relaxing rapidly, and the small cartoon ghost swayed with the movement. Dean couldn’t help looking at his brother’s skin – all golden lines dotted with moles. Being that close was a dangerous thing, the smell of Sam’s adrenaline from the small stick and poke tickled his nostrils and made his brain fuzzy. But scooting the chair away, he could see his handiwork clearly, and was impressed with himself. The spirit was tucked almost in Sam’s armpit, and was a small secret thing. It went well with the little Pac-man ghost Sam had just finished near Dean’s right Achilles tendon. 

“Done?” Sam asked, half-rolling over. His eyes shone with the buzz that comes with getting a tattoo, and he looked beautiful in the dim light that leaked through the dusty windows of their squatting home for the week.  
“Woah, Sammy!” Dean scrambled for the pot of ink before it could stain their only set of sheets. He picked it up and turned to the dresser to tuck away the supplies before Dad came home and asked them who had taken up sewing and who had taken up calligraphy. When he turned around, Sam had rolled onto his back on the twin bed, mattress protesting loudly. He held out his arms in an invitation for a hug. 

“C’mere,” Sam said. And Dean had never said no to his brother a day in his life. He flopped on top of Sam and buried his face in his brother’s neck. Sam smelled like summer, the kind of sweat he only got from slowly sweltering the whole day, the musk soft and mixed with the smell of mown grass. Dean weaseled his hands under Sam, and Sam arched his back to allow Dean to wind his arms around him, Sam’s small torso pressed so tight against Dean he could reach his own elbows. 

He didn’t know what possessed him to do it, but Dean rubbed his lips along the column of Sam’s neck, could feel the hard muscle covered with the thin layer of skin there, the way the large artery pounded. He didn’t know if it was the exhilaration of the tattoo or… 

Sam garbled out a sentence above him. “Don’t do it if you don’t mean it – Dean – please. I can’t –“ Another tentative slide of lips against his neck. Sam exhaled slowly and arched his neck. The third time Dean opened his mouth like he was gasping for air, bit into Sam’s throat and bared his teeth there. He moved one hand to where the fresh ink was imprinted into Sam’s skin forever. Sam hissed in a breath, and Dean didn’t know if it was from the teeth or his hands. Oh god, was it from his teeth or his hands. He tried to pull back to meet Sam’s gaze, but Sam threaded his fingers through his hair and pulled his face close. And it was answer enough. 

This is how it went: they marked each other with ink and with blood rising softly to the surface of skin and pooling in purpling bruises lined with teeth marks. One would fade and one would remain. The message was the same.


End file.
